“What else would it be?” he says, voice calm but stripped bare. “You hired me. I took the job. There’s a scope of work. There’s a deadline.”
“That’s not what it’s been,” I say, letting the tool fall to the floor with a quiet thunk. “You know that.”
He doesn’t answer.
“This isn’t just content,” I go on. “And it’s not a storyline. It changed.”
He meets my gaze. “Changed for who? You got more followers. You leaned into the story. It fit your brand.”
My breath catches. “You really think that’s all this was to me?”
“You tell me.” His voice is flat, but the line of his jaw is tense. “The flip plans. The projected profits. The exit strategy. What was all that if not planning your way out?”
“I wrote those before I ever got here,” I say. “Before I knew anything about you, or the town, or this house. Before I knew I’d want to stay.”
He shakes his head. “You talk about staying. But I’ve heard that before. I’ve seen what it looks like when someone says they want to build a life here, and then starts looking for their way out the minute things get real.”
“I’m not her,” I say, the words quiet but certain.
“Then what are you, Penny?” he asks. “Because I don’t know what part of this is real anymore.”
“You are,” I say. “This house. This work. The part of me that wants to stay, even if I’m scared I won’t know how. Even if I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to believe I could.”
We stand there, both of us holding everything we’ve been afraid to say, and all I can think is: demolition isn’t the moment of destruction. It’s the part where you have to face what’s been underneath all along.
“Those were from before!” I snap, sharper than intended, the frustration bubbling over. “Before I knew this town, before I had any idea what I was building here. People change, Owen. Plans change.”
“Some people don’t,” he replies, low and deliberate. “Some just get better at telling themselves they have.”
It lands hard. “So that’s what you think? That I’m pretending to care? Playing house until something better comes along?”
“I think you’re doing exactly what you’vealways done,” he says. “Crafting a moment. Creating a story that works for right now, just long enough to keep from committing to anything that lasts.”
“And you’re doing what you’ve always done,” I shoot back, the hurt pushing recklessly forward. “Hiding in your work. Pretending control means safety. You build walls so well, it never even occurs to you someone might want to stay.”
He flinches, just barely, but it’s enough to know I hit somewhere close to the truth. And even knowing that, I don’t stop.
“This is just another project to flip and forget for you,” he says, cutting in before I can speak again. “Another temporary stop on your way back to the life you actually want.”
“And you’ve built a life you don’t want,” I counter. “You gave up your design career. You gave up Boston. You gave up your own future so you could be the one who stays. And now you’re too scared to want anything else because if it doesn’t work, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
The silence stretches like a pulled wire. We’re breathing hard, not from exertion, but from saying things that were never supposed to be said. We’ve both drawn blood.
“You don’t know what I want,” Owen says, quieter now, but no less sure.
“Don’t I?” I take a step forward. “I’ve seen your sketches. I’ve watched you explain architecture like it’s sacred. You light up when you talk about design, Owen, but you’re terrified to want it out loud. So you pretend building someone else’s dream is enough.”
“And you run from every opportunity to stop,” he says, matching my step. “You call it freedom, but it’s just fear. You leave before anyone else gets the chance.”
We’re standing close now, so close I can see how hard he’s working to hold the line between anger and something softer. His eyes flick across my face like he’s memorizing it against his will.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” My voice drops. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“Yet.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but the word lands like a verdict. “Your plans say otherwise.”
“Plans change. People change.” My voice cracks under the strain. “You just won’t believe that I have.”
“I’ve heard this before,” he says. “Someone saying they could make it work. Saying they were choosing this. And then packing up anyway.”
